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Oh, to be a fly on the wall of the Dr. Oz writing room. No—to be a person on a chair in that writing room.

To make the cut on the Dr. Oz show, you’ve got to know a thing. The thing being, of course, redundancy. When you send the esteemed Dr. Mehmet Oz out into that standing-room-only-lioness-den-and-also-television-studio packed to the brim with bored, middle-aged women, he better be stuffed up to his beady little eyes with tips on how to lose weight.

If not, upon you will the harem of Oz feast.

So, if anyone from the Dr. Oz camp happens to be reading this, I went ahead and drafted a spec script:

Dr. Oz, returning from commercial: “Welcome back ladies, yes, I am a real doctor.” He pauses here to allow swooning. “Now, let’s get right to it: who wants to lose weight?”

Audience: “MEEEEEEEE!!!!! MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!”

Oz: “Okay then. I’ve got a secret to share, something no other doctor will ever tell you. Quick survey: how many of you eat a cheeseburger and French fries every day? Show of hands.”

Everyone raises their hand.

Oz: “Did any of you know that a diet like that is actually bad for you?”

Everyone looks around in disbelief.

Oz: “It’s true, it’s true. What if I told you that, instead of eating a cheeseburger and fries every day, you will lose weight if you eat broccoli and rice instead?”

The audience collectively bows down to The Oz: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Dr. Oz: “And here’s a bonus tip—it’s also healthier to drink water instead of soda!”

Everyone is now spasming and speaking in tongues.

Dr. Oz: “And one more thing before we go: if you exercise instead of sitting on your couch, your metabolism will speed up!”

Something like scales fall from upon every eye in the audience. A massive rebirth has taken place. They all go forth into the world, ready to turn their lives around. However, in the time between the end of the show and the next morning, all of these brutal truths are washed away by one last binge, followed by the intoxicating coma that comes after eating a box of Cosmic Brownies….

Tomorrow, Dr. Oz replaces cheeseburger with hot dog. Broccoli becomes spinach. Water is now decaffeinated green tea. No one notices.

Like this:

A few weeks ago, at one of them political rallies, Dr. Ben Carson said something like this: Hillary Clinton wrote her senior thesis on Saul Alinsky. Saul Alinsky mentions Lucifer in one of his books. Therefore, Hillary Clinton worships Satan.

Compelling argument, but there’s no way she’s that cool.

So I sat for a while, thinking. Following Dr. Carson’s logic, I learned some very dark truths about myself.

Here are a few:

I read Gravity’s Rainbow, a big novel with a small part featuring coprophilia. Therefore, I am a coprophiliac.

I enjoy using car batteries to torture hookers, because a copy of American Psycho is sitting in my book pile right now. Also, I like to stab small children at the zoo.

I am a homophobic pill popper who hates his mother. That would be from my high school days listening to Eminem.

I cook meth. Thanks, Breaking Bad.

And most horrifying of all, I might not play football next year because I’d rather hang out with Wooderson and drink beer.

Cause of issue: lack of innovation and creative stagnation in marketing this product stems from the lunar-like cyclicity of the feminine, ahem, time, which leads tampons to be designated as a need, not a want, causing top napkin producers to take sales for granted.

Solution: rebrand the product.

For this rebranding, our ideal situation would have been to land famed pitchman Billy Mays, but as we all know, it’s been seven years since he mainlined his last speedball of OxiClean, sending him screaming enthusiastically into the Great Void.

It’s okay, with the internet, we can find an impersonator.

Our Billy Mays impersonator

So then we move on to the name. The most obvious choice was to christen the product Tampon Daddy.

That probably needs an explanation.

Well I’ve got one.

The name adds a subtle masculine aspect to a product that has, historically, captured nearly 100% of its sales from a demographic of child-bearing age females. It’s time for tampons to break into a new market—a market that has the potential to double sales.

How are we going to sell Tampon Daddy to men? You make tampons sexy again.

And how do you do that? I……don’t know.

Oh yeah, back to the beginning: the issue was that tampon commercials aren’t funny.

So I guess come up with a tampon commercial featuring a Billy Mays impersonator that portrays the product in a very hilarious, sexy light, and somehow opens an educated discussion on why men aren’t using these things, all while not alienating women.

Samsung has blown us all away with the release of its Virtual Reality Headset. For only one hundred dollars, you can strap your smart phone an inch away from your eyes, and be launched into alternate dimensions.

You could easily steal this woman’s wallet.

I went ahead and invented the next generation of this technology. For two hundred bucks, I’ll lead you into a forest, where you can pick out any old stump you want. For an extra fifty, I’ll provide an axe and let you chop down a tree of your choosing.

And for the low low price of three hundred dollars, I will bring you to a store, point you in the direction of the furniture department, and allow you to browse through stools and chairs, any of which you can easily purchase.

Then we’ll go to your house, and I will help you place your new Virtual Reality Ass Holder a foot in front of your television. After that, you can sit on it, and lean forward until your nose is nearly touching the screen. Depending on what kind of TV you have, the world in front of you could be over six feet long! Just compare that to the tiny screen of your smart phone. Congratulations, you are now experiencing a digital life separate from your own depressing, tortured existence, and you don’t need to have a thing strapped to your head.

I’m an “ideas man.” A “problem solver.” A guy that “gets things done.”

So, instead of sitting here with my hand down my pants, adding onto the internet trash heap of Jared prison rape jokes, I’ve already hatched a scheme to cash in on the fallout Subway is facing.

Here’s my pitch: we all know that a fat pervert can get skinny on the Subway diet. This has been pounded into our heads for the last 15 years. So, Subway, why not go the other direction and hire me, a svelte gentleman who is willing to become very, very obese from eating Subway, while also being attracted to adult women? Eh? Imagine commercials featuring a big fat guy that eats his height’s worth of meatball sandwiches every day as women surround him, feeding him cookies and caressing his ever-expanding ‘Subway Bod.’

The speculation surrounding season two of the HBO series True Detective ends here. As a northern midwestern Hollywood insider, I’ve got the juicy, succulent details.

The cast:

Vince Vaughn plays Matthew McConaughey (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), a detective who drives a Lincoln while revealing his thoughts on what it’s like to drive a Lincoln.

Colin Farrell portrays Vince Vaughn (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), an alcoholic police officer trying to dry out. At one point, Vaughn, the character, believes he is the brother of Santa Claus, but then comes to his senses and starts a fraternity.

Series creator Nic Pizzolatto makes an appearance as police chief Woody Harrelson (all characters are fictitious, any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental), while wearing a pregnancy vest and carrying on an affair with a busty paralegal.

Matthew McConaughey (the real person) is absent from the cast, for he is believed to be isolated somewhere in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, rubbing his fingers together, writing dialogue for the next run of Lincoln commercials.

The plot:

Matthew McConaughey, the detective, discovers a disfigured body along the Pacific Coast Highway, believed to be corrupt politician Colin Farrell, played by Woody Harrelson. The corpse presents a multitude of esoteric knife carvings along his perineum—this obviously wasn’t the killer’s first rodeo. Naturally, Vince Vaughn’s character, Matthew McConaughey, wants to get to the bottom of things, so he calls in Vince Vaughn, played by Colin Farrell, a choice that chief Woody Harrelson (Nic Pizzolatto) has a major objection with.

Of course, the whole time, we’re wondering if the actual Matthew McConaughey will hop in his Lincoln and descend from the mythical Sierra Nevada peaks in order to help out with the investigation. After a few episodes, the actual McConaughey does come down out of the mountains, and is entangled in an impromptu metaphysical ‘act-off’ with Vince Vaughn’s fictional character named Matthew McConaughey that is not actually based on the real human Matthew McConaughey, in order to define the true meaning of Matthew McConaughey.

Matthew McConaughey, the actor, produces a notebook and begins to read: The laws of physics state that Matthew McConaughey, whether in liquid, gas, solid, or plasma form, cannot be defined by two separate bodies, for Matthew McConaughey exists everywhere, in everything. He is inside you. He is inside me. He is inside a Lincoln. He is the universe. Matthew McConaughey got himself pregnant and gave birth to God.

Security roughly escorts McConaughey, the actor, who drops his notebook, from the set, while McConaughey, the character, goes back to performing the scripted material. He picks up the notebook.

The cover reads, in childish handwriting, Matt’s Journal of Hopes and Dreams.

In the pages of Matt’s journal, the actor McConaughey’s plot to murder corrupt politician Colin Farrell, played by Woody Harrelson, is revealed.

McConaughey, the detective played by Vince Vaughn, chases down the security guards that carried out McConaughey, the actor.

The head guard looks confused and claims that he did not escort McConaughey, the actor, from the premises. Detective McConaughey closes his eyes for a moment to think. When he opens them, the guard is gone and an empty Lincoln MKC sits before him. The car drives off.

The face of Matthew McConaughey, the actor, is superimposed over the final scene before everything fades to black.

Kind of a long story, I suppose. ***SPOILER ALERT—even though everything that follows is completely true, it very closely parallels, and at some points is the exact same as, the ending plotline from the hit television show Breaking Bad. So here’s the gist of it.

As he became increasingly psychotic and morally bankrupt, I had no choice but to turn on my meth cooking partner. I’m dumb, and he’s smart, so naturally some things went very wrong. I was captured in the New Mexican desert by a gang of neo-Nazis who tortured me and forced me to make drugs for them in a secure compound from which there was no escape. I was, however, able to replace the active ingredient in meth with an industrial grade laxative. The only thing that kept me going all those months was the solace that tweekers the Southwest over were experiencing historic bouts of bowl-vacating pestilence.